


Off Limits

by HobbitKitten



Series: Tell Me Everything [5]
Category: The Hobbit RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:32:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4746602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HobbitKitten/pseuds/HobbitKitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don't touch. Unless you're Dean. No, wait, still can't touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off Limits

 

 

It's been about a week since I've had my Aidan-touching-privileges revoked. It's a rare evening where we've wrapped early AND have tomorrow off. Naturally, the vast majority of the cast and crew have swarmed our favorite local pubs. I'm sitting in a coveted corner booth with a couple dwarves, a hobbit, and a wizard, all marveling at Jimmy's unearthly drinking abilities. He should be passed the fuck out by now. Not only is he conscious, but he's speaking intelligibly (though not intelligently). Not that I'm listening, but everyone seems to be loving whatever largely embellished tale he's telling.

My own brain seems to be short-circuited, even though I've only had a couple pints. My attention is across the crowded room, on a crappy little table. You know, one that's kind of tippy, and covered with such a film of guck and beer that no amount of scrubbing will salvage it? One that's always getting jostled by stumbling drunks or wild dancers because it's just a touch too close to the bar and not near far enough from the makeshift dance floor? It's three occupants could be in another fucking world, however, as much as they seem to care. Aid left our group to grab us a pitcher, and never came back. Not that I was watching his every move or anything, but he got waylaid as he wound his way toward the bar by this... God I hate to admit it... unbelievably handsome blond. A real stereotype this one. Bright blue eyes. Chiseled square jaw. Tiny tank top stretched near to bursting by what I imagine are perfectly sculpted muscles. Jeans just loose enough to not violate obscenity laws. Before I knew it, he was hugging Aid like an old friend. (Maybe he is. Likely I'll never find out. I've lost my questions-about-Aidan's-personal-life-privileges too.) And kept hugging ... not like a nicely platonicly friendly hug. More like a gee-I'd-love-to-get-you-out-of-those-pants hug. Aid looked shocked for a beat, but then he was hugging/groping right back. Not long after they were joined by this truly monstrous brute. I mean, I thought Blondy had muscles. I was wrong. It's a wonder the Brute's hug didn't snap Aid's spine. They've all been having an overly cozy chat for the better part of an hour.

So yeah. I'm ignoring Jimbo. My mind has wandered deep into Aidan-infested territory. But it's not operating properly. You'd imagine, that when I watched the Brute's hand wander dangerously low, mid-hug, that I'd automatically remember the countless times I'd sneaked a hand down the back of Aid's costume in the middle of the dining tent. Remembering the firm muscles that my fingers found there. The nearly-imperceptible jump when I squeezed his arse, nice and hard, and very publicly. It'd be logical, even, if I was remembering how I could feel the heat of his blush rising, hidden by make-up, if I was standing close enough. And I always was.

But that's not what I'm thinking about.

Minutes later, you might imagine, that Blondy's hand, resting comfortably on Aidan's knee, sliding slowly upward, would bring to mind  how good he looks on his back, sweating, panting, wild hair, wild eyes, his own fingers shaking and digging in to his skin as he pulls those same knees tight to his chest. Maybe a memory of his decadent moans, his pleas to fuck him harder, to please please please let him come for me.

But that's not what keeps my attention divided either.

Then Brute puts one of his giant hands comfortably on Aidan's shoulder, his thumb rubbing surprisingly gentle circles along Aid's throat. A logical thought process might take me back to the first time I bit Aidan, just a little too hard, on that exact spot, trying to muffle myself while I fucked him up against a wall in a storage closet at the Stonestreet studio one morning. Oh, god, he had never moaned like that for me before. I'd stopped, pulled my mouth away, afraid I hurt him, and he fucking _whimpered_. I'd then somehow managed to not slow my pace, pounding him hard while I lavished his neck with nibbles and kisses, one hand clamped over his mouth until we both came at a (relatively) low volume. Amazing coordination, me. His make-up artist didn't forgive him for those marks until a week after they'd faded away.

But, still, no. Not what I'm preoccupied with.

Over and over, my malfunctioning brain has decided to play me a scene from WELL before I'd made my move on Aidan. We were maybe two weeks in to shooting. It was a night, not unlike tonight, when we'd wrapped early. I was still getting to know my new cast mates. I didn't know much about Aidan, but I knew I liked him. He had a really magnetic personality and a contagious laugh. I also knew he was a hugger, and a snuggler. All good things. In fact, I was really having trouble finding fault with him. Maybe, _maybe_ , his one fault lay on top of his charming little Irish head. Those curls. Ugh. Come on. Who looks this goddamn good all. The. Time? We'd all learned early that Aid didn't like his hair touched. So naturally the dwarves had turned it in to a game. They even keep a points tally. I think Graham is winning. Poor Aid. He was always swatting prosthetic encased fingers away. Or outright punching (in the shoulder. Usually.) anyone who went for the early morning hair ruffle. (Extra points if you touch Aidan's hair and live before he's had his coffee.)

On the particular evening I'm obsessing over, Aid and I found ourselves as the last two standing after the first of what would be many dwarven get-togethers. Well. Not standing. Sitting. And not evening. Morning. As the newbie, it had been my turn to host. My house was trashed, my beer was gone, and so were most of my guests. Around the time Adam and Jimmy had left we'd started watching some terrible horror flick on late night tele. I was sitting on the sofa, right leg curled under me. Aid had plopped down directly in front of me when the movie began. By the end, he was slouched against my left leg, his temple resting on my knee, fiddling the label off of his empty beer bottle. We were both half asleep, but determined to see the movie through until the last screaming bimbo was brutally murdered. Right as the credits started to roll, I realized what I was doing. I don't know how long I'd been doing it, but I was suddenly aware that while one hand held my own empty beer, the other was tangled in curls. Had I been petting him like a fucking puppy? Apparently so. I pulled my hand away, shook my head to clear away the sleepy fuzzy feeling creeping in, and mumbled "Sorry mate."

He'd tilted his head backward in a lazy attempt to look at me with minimal movement. God he's beautiful. Yes, in the sickly yellow, flickering glow of movie credits, he's beautiful. At two am. Not fair. "What for?"

"The hair. Sorry."

He shrugs and his head lolls back to it's original resting place on my knee. "'S fine."

I'm a little confused. "But. I thought your general rule was to hurt those who touch the hair. I know dwarves with the bruises to prove it."

He shrugs again. He pauses. "They do it wrong."

Another pause. The title sequence for the sequel to our horrible horror flick flashes across my screen. Maybe I'm drunk. Maybe I'm overly tired. Maybe I'm just banking that he's too sleepy to punch hard. But I move my hand back to his curls. And hope that the sequel is a nice, long one.

That's the scene I've been seeing in my mind's eye all night. And that's what I'm seeing while I watch Brute and Blondy leave the pub. Brute's still got an arm around Aidan's shoulder. Blondy's opposite him with an arm wrapped snuggly around Aid's waist.

I think it's time for shots.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, pure fiction, I sadly don't know these characters.  
> Comments and/or constructive criticisms welcome.  
> Also, I have the chapter explaining why Dean's in the doghouse basically finished (it's also a bit porny-er than the last couple updates). I'm just nitpicking at it. Soon, my precious.


End file.
